


Ghosts in my Lungs

by asexualjuliet



Series: But the Wound’s Still Open [3]
Category: Everwood
Genre: Gen, Grief/Mourning, Mary please read this, No spoilers if you’re mary, Oreos, The working title for this was “just some fuckin’ sad boi hours”
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:41:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25751506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asexualjuliet/pseuds/asexualjuliet
Summary: “Hey,” Bright says. “I, um, I know I said I wouldn't talk to you anymore, but I just — I kind of need to right now, y’know?”The stone in front of him doesn’t respond.
Relationships: Bright Abbott & Colin Hart
Series: But the Wound’s Still Open [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1867159
Comments: 2
Kudos: 1





	Ghosts in my Lungs

**Author's Note:**

> me: ok lets write some sad boi hours. colin’s fuckin dead, bright is sad. discuss  
> my dumbass brain: talk about the ghosts  
> me: i —  
> my dumbass brain: the ghosts. ma’am do you hear me?? the fuckign GHOSTS
> 
> I looked up “is there a six flags in colorado” and there was not but there was an amusement park called Elitch Gardens so that’s what that is.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

“Hey,” Bright says. “I, um, I know I said I wouldn't talk to you anymore, but I just—I kind of need to right now, y’know?”

The stone in front of him doesn’t respond. 

Cemeteries have always scared the hell out of Bright. When he was a kid, Amy told him about how you’re supposed to hold your breath while you’re passing a graveyard, and he can remember coming exceptionally close to fainting because of it. 

Why are you supposed to hold your breath when you pass a graveyard, anyway? Is it, like, so the ghosts don’t enter your body and then live in your lungs for the rest of your life? Bright wonders how that works, like if the ghosts would be able to possess you while living in your lungs. Wouldn’t that be scary as fuck?

He doesn’t believe in ghosts, though. Not anymore. When he was a kid, cemeteries were fucking terrifying, he’d always be on the lookout for a zombie hand ready to drag him down into the pits of hell, or, y’know, a ghost looking to reside in his lungs. 

Now, cemeteries are just sad. 

When you’re a kid, you don’t know anyone with their name on a stone. Maybe a grandparent, but Bright had never been particularly close to Grandpa Hal, so the reality of it never really hit him. 

It’s hit him by now, though. Socked him in the chest and knocked the wind out of him, or at least it feels that way. 

Because he’s not a kid anymore. And the stone in front of him reads _Colin Michael Hart._

“I was gonna bring you flowers, but I figured Amy had that covered,” he says, sitting down and nodding to the yellow tulips laid down across Colin’s grave. “And I know you don’t even like flowers, so I, uh, I brought you some oreos.”

Bright sighs. “I know that sounds stupid,” he says. “You’re not — you’re not real. Or you are, but it’s just your body. There’s no brain in there, I don't think. I guess we’ve evened the playing field a little.”

He pauses. 

“That was mean. I don’t know. Dad says jokes are a coping mechanism. Amy says they’re stupid as fuck.” 

He huffs a laugh. 

“I don’t—you know I wish you were still smarter and more athletic and just overall better than me, right? That even playing field thing, that was a joke. A stupid-ass joke.”

Another silence. 

“Yeah, I know you don’t mind,” Bright says. He reaches into his pocket and deposits two oreos onto the ground in front of the grave. 

“I know you used to like to eat them in even numbers,” Bright says. “We always used to make fun of you for that.”

He smiles. 

“Do you remember when we were twelve and we split a gigantic thing of oreos on the bus ride to Elitch Gardens?” he asks the stone in front of him. 

“I know you do,” he says, as if that’s going to get him an answer. “We ate an entire fucking package of oreos—what do you call those things? Cartons? Containers? Is it a carton of oreos? That sounds right, right?—We ate an entire fucking carton of oreos and went on the goddamn Tilt-A-Whirl fifteen minutes later like a couple of morons.”

Bright laughs at the memory. “Sorry for puking oreos on you, man, but you’re the one who brought the fucking carton, so I’m not gonna put all the blame on me for this one. Take some responsibility.”

He offers the stone in front of him a smile, just in case Colin’s really there, in ghost form or something. 

“Do you believe in ghosts?” Bright asks. “No, that’s stupid. If you can hear me, then you _are_ a ghost, right? Something pretty damn close to a ghost, at least. And if you’re a ghost, you believe in ghosts.”

He pauses. 

“You didn’t believe in ghosts when we were kids. I remember. You pretended, you held your breath with me when we passed a graveyard, but that was just to make me feel better, ‘cause you knew Amy wouldn’t dare make fun of you. But you stopped pretending when I stopped believing, and that’s how I knew.”

“I wish I still believed in ghosts,” he admits. “‘Cause if I did, I think I’d probably think I was really talking to you, and I don’t.”

Bright sighs. 

“I know you’re not there, man. I know you can’t fucking hear me. I know you’re rotting in the ground six feet under my feet, but the idea of that kind of makes me want to puke, so I’m just gonna pretend you can hear me.”

“Did I ever tell you why I held my breath when we walked past graveyards?” Bright asks. He’s pretty sure he hadn’t, because the whole ghosts-in-your-lungs dilemma had always been too fucking stupid for him to express to another human being. Luckily, Colin’s not a human being anymore. 

“I was scared of breathing in the ghosts,” he tells Colin. “I was scared I’d breathe in, and there’d just be, like, a fuckin’ ghost in my lungs, y’know?” 

He laughs. “God, when I say it out loud, it sounds fucking ridiculous,” he admits. “But I was so damn scared of those ghosts in my lungs.”

“Y’know, if ghosts are real, and that ghosts-in-your-lungs theory is actually accurate, are you in my lungs right now?” Bright asks. “Or did Amy or Laynie or your parents already breathe in your spirit or whatever and take you home with them?” 

He rolls his eyes. He can’t believe he’s still talking about this. “What if you’re actually a ghost, and I’m talking to you, but you can’t hear me ‘cause you’re in my sister’s lungs? That’d fucking suck.”

“If I was a ghost, I don’t think I’d stay in Everwood. Unless that’s like, in the rules or something. You get to heaven, they’re like _Rule number one: you are confined to haunting your dumbass birthplace of Nowheresville, Colorado.”_

 _“God,_ that’d suck,” Bright remarks. “Just haunting Everwood for the rest of your life. You know I love this place, man, but there’s nothing to do but eat food, play football, and hang out with your friends, and ghosts can’t do any of that shit, I don’t think.”

He sighs. “I’m rambling, dude, ‘cause I don’t wanna deal with the real shit I came here to do.”

He reaches up to trace the words on the gravestone. _Colin Michael Hart. 1986 - 2003._

2003\. God, it’s ‘05 now. It’s been two goddamn years.

“Happy birthday, man,” Bright says. “Happy — happy nineteenth.”

He thinks about that for a second. “Does it count as a nineteenth birthday if you never made it to nineteen?” he asks. 

“I don’t know. If you were still here, we’d be the same age,” he says, even though Colin would already know that. “I miss being the same age as you. Or even a year older like I usually was. But you’re gonna be seventeen forever, and I’m gonna keep getting older.”

“I’m turning twenty in a few months,” Bright says. “Seventeen keeps getting farther away for me, but for you it’s forever, y’know?”

“Seventeen’s too young to die,” Bright says. “God, you never even fucking graduated. And I’m gonna grow up and get old and you’re not gonna be my best friend anymore. You’re just gonna be _that kid I knew who died._ ‘Cause you’ll still be a kid and I won’t anymore. You’re gonna be a kid forever.”

“I wish I could give you some of the years I’m gonna live. I wish I could give you just enough life that we’d, like, split the difference and die at the same time so we’d never have to live without each other,” he tells Colin. “Because this sucks. It’s been two fucking years and it still hurts to think about you. I miss you like hell, man, I do.”

Bright shakes his head. “I know I said I was moving on,” he says. “And I think I was. I am. But that doesn’t mean I can’t still miss you, right?”

“Ephram told me once that it’ll never stop hurting to think about you,” Bright says. “That it’ll get better, I won’t think about you as much, and it’ll hurt less than it used to when I do, but it’ll never heal all the way.”

“I think Ephram’s my best friend now that you’re gone. Will it make you sad if I call him that?”

No answer. It’s hard to have a good conversation with a polished piece of rock. 

“He’s not gonna replace you, man, I promise. But I need a best friend, y’know?”

There’s a silence. 

“Yeah. I know you do.”

Bright makes sure the two oreos are in a perfectly aligned stack in front of the stone. He stands up. 

“Happy birthday, Colin,” he says. “Hope it's a good one.”

He starts to walk away, but stops. 

“Enjoy the oreos,” he says. No answer. He breathes in and subconsciously wonders how many ghosts have entered his lungs. 

“Bye, Colin.”


End file.
